Zombie Zero

The first thing Kyle Williams noticed when he awoke from a drunken stupor was a pair of legs sticking out from behind his couch. It was not abnormal for him to find strangers in his cramped two bedroom apartment after a hard night of drinking. Usually they slept on his ratty furniture, in front of it, or hanging off it. Sometimes they even ended up in his bed, but never before had someone ended up behind the couch. As he slowly sat up, being careful not to jostle his brain against his skull, he became aware of other various aches and pains. The worst of them was his throat. It felt like a porcupine had crawled down it backwards and his face felt as if an extra layer of skin had grown over it while he slept. The urge to vomit was overwhelming. Groggy, he wandered into his small galley kitchen, pushing the rising gorge down as best he could. Some people drank coffee in the morning to wake themselves up, Kyle drank a shot of whatever was on hand followed by beer. “Great,” he grumbled as he opened the cabinet where he stashed his booze. The only thing left was a cheap plastic bottle of some no-name Russian vodka. “The safety bottle.” No one who came to his home ever drank from the safety bottle because it tasted like the plastic that held it. Even Kyle hated the taste of the stuff but it was the only way he could be sure that there was always some alcohol on hand and for a man such as he, alcohol was paramount to his survival. He sucked down a couple of mouthfuls of the swill and slid the bottle back into its spot on the shelf. Although it was the cheapest vodka available, to him it was still something to be worshipped. Plastic container or not, booze was to be treated with the utmost respect. More than one visitor had learned that the hard way. Wonder if that’s why the dude is behind the couch? Did I stuff him back there for drinking out of the safety bottle? Once, a former girlfriend decided to clean out his refrigerator for him. In the process, she shifted his beer from one side of a shelf to the other. When Kyle later reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of mayonnaise, he lost his temper and threw her out on her ass, screaming at her that no woman would ever change his ways. Even though he still regretted how it ended—she had treated him better than anyone ever had— he had no remorse over the reason why it ended. He took a few more belts of the plastic tasting booze and washed the ex-girlfriend out of his mind. “Gotta be a beer in there someone,” he told himself. He rooted through the fridge for a few moments, sorting through fuzzy green chunks of astro-turf that had once been food, until he found a solitary beer lying on its side at the very back of the bottom shelf. He sighed with relief and headed for the living room. Plopping down onto his favorite chair, a crappy garage sale special recliner, he rocked gently back and forth as he waited for the pained edges of his skull to wear down. “Oh man,” he groaned quietly. “Must have really tied it on last night, huh?” He aimed the question at the feet. He decided a little television might help. The remote was where it always was—stuffed between the seat cushion and the bottom of the armrest. He flipped on the TV and Woody Woodpecker appeared. He stared dumbly at the glowing phosphorus blobs on the glass as he waited for the alcohol to do its job. Eventually, the gremlin inside his skull stopped wrestling with his brain and he started to feel human again. But he also became more and more aware of a thick stench that permeated the stale air of the tiny apartment. He sniffed at it like a dog. The closest aroma memory to which he could compare it was the smell of a dead cow rotting in late August. Why his home smelled like that he could only guess. What in the world had happened last night? Did somebody freaking die? he mused. He got up to check the bathroom and noticed the feet again. “Oh my God,” he muttered unhappily. The odor was strongest nearest the feet. “Man, I’m not cleaning up whatever it is you did back there,” he said. He contemplated his options though the gears of his brain were rusted solid and would not turn. Not knowing what else to do, he kicked a foot. It barely moved. No response was bad news. The fellow didn’t even twitch. “Damn, dead out, huh?” Kyle observed. Something struck a chord as the words escaped his mouth.